


A Toast

by cruciel



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-03-28
Updated: 2005-03-28
Packaged: 2017-10-05 17:16:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cruciel/pseuds/cruciel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Toast

When Edward thought about it- and he wasn’t so blind to those things as everyone else made him out to be- his relationship with Mustang started the usual way. It was all so very logical. One side (presumably the male) felt attraction for the other side (presumably female, but that meant Ed was relegating himself in the role of a girl, hence the awkward labelling), and to let her/him know, gave a token to express that he cared for the other.

Normally, these tokens constituted items that were pretty and impractical to the point of being utterly useless. Flowers, for example. They died. It reminded him too much of the pathetic bouquet- white, bleeding sunset- resting on top of his mother’s tombstone. Rings were another. Ed didn’t think much of a relationship where both parties couldn’t remember each other’s name so that they needed engraved ornaments to help them out at awkward times.

It was foolish and utterly sentimental, but Ed had a niggling feeling that he might have preferred the shallow materialistic pledge of love and devotion to Mustang’s version of ‘showing how he cared’. But Mustang was weird like that. Or maybe he wanted it to be different with Edward.

What Edward couldn’t understand was how someone could show affection with something as disgusting as a glass of milk. And succeed.

*~*~*~*~*

  
Ed glared at the table, directing all his hatred towards dairy farmers of the nation for producing something this abominable. “What the hell is this, Mustang?” he demanded.

“It’s _Colonel_ Mustang, Fullmetal.” Roy sounded decidedly amused at Edward’s agitation. “And it’s called milk. I’m sure you’ve seen it somewhere before.”

“Yeah, right before I throw it out,” Ed snapped back, whirling around furiously. “When you asked if I wanted a drink, I-”

“Expected something more alcoholic? Good heavens, no, Fullmetal.”

Ed ground his teeth. “Because I’m too young or something? I’m in the military now, not just by name, but stupid promotion and uniform and all-” he tugged at the voluminous pants to prove his point.

“Doesn’t make you any older,” Roy cut in smoothly. “Besides, even if I wanted to, I’m not sure if Lieutenant Hawkeye would approve.”

“Whipped around by your subordinates, eh?” Ed sneered.

Mustang propped one boot-clad leg across the other, leaning back in his chair with a smirk. “If it’s a choice between keeping my limbs, or facing the wrath of Hawkeye’s sharp shooting skills, I’d know where I stand. Drink up, Fullmetal. We’re celebrating your promotion.”

There was an awkward silence where Mustang realised what he had just said, confirmed by Edward clenching his fist- his right one. The metal that gave Edward his title creaked loudly in the silence.

“I never asked to be, and I’m not drinking this crap!” Ed yelled, standing up, feeling suddenly vulnerable. Stupid. No reason at all. “I only agreed to stay and ‘settle down’ because there’s only the military resources left! And damn you for making me think that I-I-”

“You what?”  Mustang asked softly, still reclined- so relaxed, why didn’t Ed notice that before?- against the leather couch, drink hovering near his bottom lip. Edward suddenly had this overwhelming feeling that all of Mustang’s concentration was on him, and unless Edward finished what he said, Mustang was perfectly inclined to have a sore arm, holding the whiskey like that.

Edward glanced outside the window, where the curtains had not been drawn yet to block out the darkness. It was late, and there was no sound from beyond the office door. Al would be waiting at their temporary dormitory, dinner tray ready. And it all seemed so futile that for one horrifying moment, he wanted to cry. He was at the end of his limits, feeling so burnt out that he usually accepted the endless paperwork assigned to him at his office. He wanted to scream at the instigator of it all, smiling at him gently as if he understood, damnit- but that meant that he was just confirming that he really had not grown up at all. He would have proven Mustang’s hypothesis right. Prove himself still not weaned off of milk and too immature to share a drink with someone else as an equal, still in need of guidance and nutrition, not companionship and camaraderie.

Maybe, just maybe, this _was_ a test. Maybe Mustang wanted Edward to prove him wrong. And judging by the way he had not moved at all during Ed’s inward struggle, Mustang needed to be proved wrong.

It was a challenge then. Edward could deal with challenges.

Uncoiling his tense muscles, he sat back down cautiously, eyeing the untouched opaque liquid in front of him with inherent distaste. “So,” he began doubtfully, “what’s so good about this particular secreted cow juice anyway?”

Mustang’s lip curved up in a satisfied smirk, as if Edward had confirmed something for him. “That’s exactly the point, Fullmetal.” He said, finally taking a sip of the amber liquor. The ice had melted, diluting the strength. Mustang didn’t care for once. “This is soy milk.”

“Say that again?” Edward’s irritation gave way an inch to his natural curiosity. He still regarded the innocent glass of milk suspiciously. “How can you make milk from soybeans?”

“It’s a particular type of soy, I understand.” Mustang took another sip. The whiskey was really sickly now. “The liquid is extracted after a particular method of crushing the beans. It is quite popular with the upper class here in Central; health properties and all that. Some tradesmen dealing in silk over in the East brought the recipe over from there. It seems that they have developed a way to consume their calcium without resorting to- ah, as you so charmingly described it, ‘juice secreted from cow udders.’”

“Don’t get graphic, you sound like a salesman.” Edward muttered, watching the glass warily. Then suddenly snatched it up and took a large gulp, expecting to throw it back up, and hopefully spray Mustang and his immaculate jacket with it.

Instead, he blinked in surprise as the cool, rich liquid flooded his mouth, sweet and nutty. Swallowed. Sat still for a moment. Took another sip, more cautious this time.

“It’s not bad.” He forced out grudgingly, and finished the glass to hide his embarrassment. In the end, Mustang was right again. Ed was getting rather tired of that.  _If the bastard started laughing_…he thought ominously as he put the glass down and turned to see if the bastard was smirking.

Mustang wasn’t. The relaxed slouch was back, and Edward envied the way the man exuded lazy confidence and complete surety of self. He had been watching Edward’s hurried drinking with his cheek propped up on one gloved hand, smiling in that scary and gentle way, dark eyes softened to languorous affection, as he looked Edward over and grinned, eyes lighting up with genuine amusement. Before Ed could defend himself, Mustang had leaned over the table, balancing with one hand, cupping Ed’s face with the other. The gloves felt extra scratchy against his cheek, like he could feel every tiny fleck of flint sewn into the material. Edward’s eyes widened from saucer to dinner plate size as a scratchy thumb traced over his upper lip.

“Edward,” Mustang said with absolute seriousness despite his smile, “you have a milk moustache. How cute.”

Absolute fury blasted away any kind of confusion and Edward prepared himself to combust, wrench the colonel’s arm, anything, but then Mustang was kissing him carefully— and _he called me Edward_ – and suddenly he felt like combusting in a completely different way. And everything became pretty irrelevant, and he closed his eyes.


End file.
